Freewrite 3
I was fourteen when I was attacked by a shark. For weeks my father had been begging me to go surfing with him, telling me over and over that nothing would happen, insisting that he'd teach me. Eventually I caved and agreed to truck along on his wild idea of a vacation. Leaving behind the protection of my room. It was sunny and warm, the complete opposite of home, and he wasted no time in dragging me down to the water's edge. Both of us were decked out in wetsuits, with our boards securely tethered to our ankles.
He didn't give me any time to complain or change my mind. Grabbing my hand he dragged me into the water and out to sea. It had only taken a few hours for me to learn how to stand without falling into the drink and I was finally having fun. But one wave-too-tall and I lost sight of my dad. Terrified, I toppled off my board. Not seconds later did I feel as though I was hit by a freight train. It knocked the air out of my lungs and on reflex I inhaled a mouthful of water. I thrashed around, trying to get a look at my attacked but all I could see was a grey silhouette: framed by the sunlight above. The irony that such a horrible creature had a halo hasn't been lost on me.
